


To Have It All

by xJuniperx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AU - Athelstan lives!, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a fine line between having it all, and having nothing. </p><p>Shortly before the Vikings' raid on Paris, Athelstan receives secret correspondence from Wessex, and is astounded to learn that he has a son. Unable to share this news with Ragnar, who has sworn vengeance on King Ecbert via the eradication of everyone and everything he holds dear, Athelstan's finds his loyalties split in half, leaving Ragnar in the dark.</p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p>Divergence from S03E06. Athelstan is not reborn in the Christian faith, nor does he die, but instead he faces the ramifications of finding out he has a son. Inspired by a friend, (thanks, steph!), this indulgence of my head-canon fully realizes the consequences of everything that happened in Wessex, including not only the birth of Alfred, but also the massacre & destruction of the farming settlement. There will be angst. There will be tons of Athelnar feels. There will be multiple viewpoints, for I am an an omniscient creator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have It All

**Author's Note:**

> *Of course, I don't own these characters! Just borrowing them. This show has dominated my life for 3 years, and I'm so happy to finally be diving in to some fic. Please rate and review if you're into it, as I'm sure it will encourage me to write faster.*

No one man can have it all. If that man were to have everything he wanted, there would be nothing left to chase, nothing left to fight for. Yet, on that overcast day, sitting on the damp outskirts of the great city of Paris, Ragnar did feel as though he had it all. Or at the very least, that contentment was within arm’s reach.

To begin with, there was his title – King of Denmark, they called him, and so he was. Though such a title was of little consequence to him, he knew there was not much higher authority to which he could aspire. Yet despite that fact, there he sat, far from home, in the heart of the kingdom of _Francia_ , gazing at the elaborate and beautiful capital which would soon belong to him. The spoils at hand were beyond his comprehension, but he was wise enough to know that possessing all the riches in existence did not mean one had it all.

For he also had a large, healthy family, with a matriarch back home to mind the blossoming brood. He had a strong, ambitious son, growing into more of a leader every day. The mother of that young man was there for him, as well – steadfast and tenacious, supporting him in his intentions and revitalizing him with her effortless beauty. Then there were his many brothers and sisters, both in arms and in agriculture. Though not bound to him by blood, their loyalties were the reason for Ragnar’s prosperity, and he felt a familial affection for them all – including not only those who would aid Ragnar in preempting Paris, but those who maintained the interests of his people back home in Kattegat, raising the next generation of warriors and farmers, and diligently coaxing life from the soil.

And finally, right at his side, was the one thing which he had grown to appreciate with increasing fervor throughout the passage of time. All in one was his patient teacher, his enthusiastic storyteller, his advisor and his conscience, his confidant and his friend. Athelstan’s presence in Ragnar’s life fell somewhere in between chance and destiny. Over so many years he had watched the former monk change, and in turn he, too, had changed. When Athelstan arrived, a new world – an enormous world ripe with opportunity – began to exist for Ragnar. And as he sat, contemplating a variety of strategies with which to impregnate the sprawling city before him, Athelstan etching blueprints into the sand, Ragnar was swollen with confidence and pride.

But even on a perfect day, the sun will still set, and the moon will still rise. Ragnar knew this – he had been both a victim and a benefactor of change over his many years. He was not easily shaken by the change of the tide, nor easily surprised. And so, it was with more interest than astonishment that he turned to his eldest son’s voice calling out for him.

“Father!” he heard Bjorn shout from the peak of a short, nearby hill. “Father! There are people coming!” The heads of those around him shot up to meet the call. Athelstan fell quiet in the middle of a sentence.

Ragnar noted that the boy was not looking toward the city they were preparing to invade, but to the direction of whence they had come. He stood with a sigh, awaiting the arrival of those responsible for breaking his reverie. Finally, Bjorn began to tread down the hill, a couple of familiar faces close behind. Notice of their presence began to ripple through the crowd, and shortly, hundreds of eyes fell upon them as they approached.

“Jaakko, Hadwin,” Ragnar greeted them, yanking them each into a clapping embrace. There was a constant buzz of chatter surrounding them. “What brings you both so far from home? Is there trouble in Kattegat?” Ragnar asked in a low voice, eyes squinting as he looked them over for signs of tragedy. They seemed weary more than anything else, perhaps from their travels.

“We bring a message,” the one called Hadwin said, glancing at his companion with hesitation. “It is for Athelstan.”

Upon hearing his name, Athelstan stood, but stayed in place, awaiting Ragnar’s direction. He was certainly not the most beloved among his comrades, and typically did his best to maintain a low profile, so he could not say that this attention was entirely welcome.

“Ah, look who the gods have sent our way!” A booming voice called out from the crowd, stepping into the clearing. “To bring good news, I hope,” Rollo said, a grin adorning his face. He had been absent from that day’s strategizing session, and did not share his brother’s gravitas. Before the visitors could respond, Rollo pulled them into ardent bear hugs.

“Perhaps we should speak somewhere more quiet,” Ragnar said, his gaze flicking around the curious crowd. Without another word, he started toward a large nearby tent, the pair following in step. Behind them, Athelstan, Lagertha, Rollo and Floki followed, heads held high. Ragnar stood at the entrance of the dwelling, holding the doorway open and allowing their guests to file inside. Athelstan stepped over the threshold, making eye contact with his friend for just a moment as he entered. However, as the rest approached, Ragnar held out his hand, his palm landing flat on Rollo’s chest.

“The message,” Ragnar said, his gaze intense as he locked eyes with his brother, “is for Athelstan.” He glanced at Lagertha imploringly before turning on his heel and entering the tent, the door flapping closed behind him. Jaakko and Hadwin settled on a bench at the crude wooden table, bone-tired and seemingly overwhelmed. Ragnar did not waste any time with formalities.

“So, brothers. What is this message?” he asked. The emissaries looked at each other, saying nothing. Hadwin reached into his tunic, pulling an envelope from an inner breast pocket.

“We are not sure,” he said, voice shaky. “We can not read it,” he added, holding out the envelope toward their king. There was an unspoken tension in the air. Something the messengers were not saying.

“From where did you get this message?” Ragnar asked, taking the envelope and running his thumb delicately over the wax seal on the back. It evoked some sort of familiarity. Several silent moments passed before anyone else spoke. Finally it was Jaakko, one hand stroking his long beard over and over, who broke the silence.

“There were travelers from Wessex,” he blurted out. He did not want to be the one to remind Ragnar of Wessex, of the tragedy that befell their brothers and sisters under order of a man he once trusted. With the promise of a successful Parisian invasion looming before him, it was easy for Ragnar to forget everything that he and his people had lost. The slaughter and destruction of his English settlement had devastated Ragnar more than anyone, for it was his choices that led them down that disastrous path. When news of those atrocities had first reached him, his rage was terrifying even to those who had known him for decades, and no one was eager to see that rage come boiling back to the surface. Nevertheless, at the mere mention of Wessex, Ragnar visibly tensed.

“We couldn’t communicate with them,” Hadwin continued. “But they kept asking for Athelstan.”

“And they mentioned… er, the King,” Jaakko interjected, making sure not to speak King Ecbert’s name aloud, for fear of eliciting a reaction from their own leader.

Ragnar said nothing in response. He only stared down at the letter in his hands, his eyes large and severe. He turned it over in his hands a couple times before sliding his finger under the seal, opening the envelope and pulling out the parchment inside. The air was thick. Athelstan was standing utterly still, unafraid of Ragnar, but with fear of what the contents of the message might hold. When Ragnar unfolded the letter, he found that he could not decipher it easily, despite all of Athelstan’s teachings. “Well, Athelstan, it is for you,” he said, extending his hand. 

Athelstan stepped forward, sliding the parchment out from between Ragnar’s fingers. The first thing he did upon taking the letter was to look at the name of the sender, and immediately he felt his breath catch in his chest. It was from Judith, a woman of Christ with whom he had become infatuated during his time living in the home of the traitorous king. In a world full of confusion and darkness, Athelstan saw within Judith nothing but purity and goodness, unfaltering faith and a subtle strength that gave him an unexpected sense of peace and comfort. She reminded him of a simpler time, before everything had changed – and yet they _had_ changed, and he found himself giving in to her not just spiritually, but physically.

He did his best to keep his expression neutral. He wanted to give nothing away, at least until he understood the reason for her contact. His eyes began scanning the page hungrily, line after line, so quickly he barely processed the words. Were it not for his newfound strength of body and mind, what he read in the message might have made him fall to his knees. But instead, he stood resolute. He could not let Ragnar know of this. He could not let him know who sent the letter. He felt hard-pressed to make fast, crucial decisions regarding the information within. He could not reveal anything that might bring harm to the innocent, he realized instantly. He swallowed, keeping his face passive.

He had a son.

It was as if he existed in a vacuum. He could hear nothing, nor could he feel anything but an immense pressure against his chest. No matter how many times he scanned the words, their meaning held true. The letter described an infant with raven hair and blue-gray eyes much like his own. A gift given by God, Judith had written, to cleanse her of sin and grant her a renewed chance at purity. 

_I carry the burdens of my husband,_ she scrawled. _The massacre of the Pagans, God’s children after all, weighs heavily on my soul. I feared we would all suffer God’s wrath for bringing about such carnage. Yet you have given us the blessing of redemption in the form of an immaculate babe. You have saved us, and my gratitude will last an eternity._

“…Athelstan.” 

The name sounded muffled in his ears, so faint he was unsure if it was truly spoken. Once again, “Athelstan,” this time a bit louder, but still seeming to emanate from miles away. Then, without warning, he was drawn from his trance, extracted suddenly from his vacuum of reflection, to find the sensation of Ragnar’s calloused hand on his cheek. He tore his eyes from the letter and looked up, meeting Ragnar’s concerned gaze. Ragnar’s head was tilted in curiosity, and Athelstan could feel him studying his face. Ragnar’s thumb gave a single stroke to Athelstan’s cheekbone before the hand fell.

“What is it, my friend?” Ragnar asked, his voice low and soft.

Before Athelstan could speak, he found he had to look away from Ragnar’s eyes – those striking blue eyes that could elicit a confession from even the most skilled deceiver. He could not lie to his friend, his king, nor had he ever needed to. Yet now, the world seemed to have shifted.

“It is from… King Ecbert,” he said. Ragnar grimaced instantly. “He… he has implored me to return. He speaks of an annihilation of impiety… and invites me to witness the rebirth of Christ in Wessex.” He conjured the falsehood quickly enough, willing his face not to display the anxiety he felt.

“An annihilation… of impiety…” Ragnar repeated, rolling the words over his tongue, tasting them.

“A ridding of ungodliness,” Athelstan clarified, but only in an attempt to lend sound to the deafening silence. He knew Ragnar understood, and that no clarification was needed. He allowed himself to look back at Ragnar’s face, and found that the king’s jaw was clenched, gaze burning a hole into the wall behind him. Athelstan stood still as marble, watching as Ragnar’s lips suddenly curled into a cynical smile.

“He is taunting me,” Ragnar said with a laugh. He squinted, looking off in the distance with a grin, as if reacting to a clever joke that only he was privy to. When he spoke again, it was as if to himself, and the levity in his voice did not match the severity of his words. “He has slaughtered my people, ravaged my land, burned the fruits of our labor and still, his thirst for betrayal is not quenched. But he will not succeed,” he affirmed, shaking his head incredulously. The grin melted from his face, replaced with a solemn expression as he met Athelstan’s eyes again. “He will not take you from me, too.”

Athelstan did not know how to respond. Still, in the silence, something unspoken but undeniably substantial passed between them. Suddenly, Ragnar’s head snapped to the side as he remembered that they were not alone.

“Leave us,” he growled at Jaakko and Hadwin, both of whom jumped to their feet at the sound and shuffled toward the tent’s exit. As Jaakko lifted the flap, Ragnar added tersely, “Thank you for making the journey. I’m sure there is food and drink available to you.” Athelstan could hear how difficult it was for Ragnar to choke out those niceties. The pair nodded respectfully before taking their leave.

The fury bubbling just beneath Ragnar’s skin was evident to Athelstan, as was his attempt to restrain himself from unleashing it. The pain of Ecbert’s disloyalty flooded to the forefront of Ragnar’s mind once again. Though he had never aspired to leadership, the responsibility was ascribed to him by the gods, and he had done his best to fulfill it. He once thought his kinship with Ecbert was by the gods’ design, but now he understood that it was a test – one which he had most certainly failed. Soon he could not keep his thoughts inside, and began to mumble to himself.

“The audacity of traitors knows no bounds. He sends this message as if to pour salt in my wounds,” he muttered, staring down at the floor as he began a slow pace, back and forth in the limited space, resembling that of a restless caged animal. “How he brags of his treachery… he is no man. He is no warrior, he is no king,” he went on, his voice raising as he became increasingly agitated. “This invasion was going to bring balance. My triumph was to eclipse the catastrophes of the past. And yet, he does not let me leave those misfortunes behind. Instead, he delivers his deceit directly to me, and in doing so, drives the axe deeper into my back!” he shouted, kicking at a nearby stool, sending it hurtling into the fabric of the opposite wall.

At that, Athelstan instinctively stepped forward, placing a hand on Ragnar’s upper arm. There was an immediate effect – all at once, Ragnar’s rage seemed to diminish by half. He huffed several heavy breaths, then reached up to cover Athelstan’s hand with his own. He did not want Athelstan to pull away – not when that hand was the only thing grounding him. Anguish etched every line in his face.

“No, winning Paris will not rectify your loss. It will not bring back your brothers or regrow your crops. But what happened in Wessex doesn’t have to define you,” he said, willing Ragnar to heed his words. He forgot the contents of the letter in that moment, concern for his friend moving to the forefront of his mind. 

Ragnar flashed a bitter smile, then shook his head in disbelief. He knew, deep down, that Athelstan was right – wasn’t he always? – and still he struggled to accept the counsel.

“You are a good king, Ragnar, appointed by the gods themselves,” Athelstan pressed on, his fingers squeezing Ragnar’s arm. “And your people, these people,” he said, gesturing all around him at the warriors beyond the thin walls of their tent, “all look to you for guidance. They are ready for this fight, and soon, when Paris belongs to you, your power will finally equal your ambition.”

Ragnar softened. Athelstan always had a way of instilling hope within him. He turned toward his ally, his breathing evening out. Looking into Athelstan’s earnest face, his eyes all at once inquisitive and hopeful as always, he began to feel his composure coming back to him. He allowed himself to be calmed by Athelstan’s comforting and familiar presence, and he let out a sigh. But when he glanced down and saw the parchment still clenched in Athelstan’s hand, he knew that the issue was not settled. 

“It is not enough, Athelstan,” Ragnar said, his voice regaining its usual gentle dignity. “And you are right – conquering Paris will not undo the injustices that have been done. But after it is finished, my vengeance will be relentless,” he persisted. “Ecbert will face the consequences of his betrayal. He will watch as his home, his family… his entire kingdom is burnt to the ground,” he said, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “We will do it together, you and I,” he said, gripping Athelstan by the shoulders. “And what a joy it will be to destroy him, to destroy everything he has, with you by my side.”

At the mention of Ecbert’s family, Athelstan was struck again with the shock of the news he had so recently acquired. It flooded through his entire body. His stomach clenched, his muscles constricted. It did not escape the notice of Ragnar, who let out an unexpected burst of laughter.

“Don’t tell me the thought of it upsets you. You’re one of us now. A warrior. I know you still think of your God, but I thought we got rid of your Christian sensibilities long ago,” he said jokingly, landing a playful punch to Athelstan’s shoulder, before stepping away and sitting at the table to pour himself a drink.

Athelstan chuckled in response, though it was empty. His thoughts were with Judith and the child again. It was true that, over time, he had come to subscribe to pagan beliefs. He felt the pagan gods all around him, every day, and he had spilled enough blood for them over the years to call himself a true believer. It was not the idea of destruction or bloodshed that bothered him – in fact, he had grown to genuinely savor the taste of battle. It was the thought of Judith, and the son she bore for him, falling victim to the maelstrom of Ragnar’s vengeance which made his stomach turn. He felt as though he may never be able to sleep again, knowing Ragnar’s intentions. 

Athelstan knew Ragnar to be a determined man. This pagan king was never one to give up, and Athelstan felt certain that after Paris was conquered, Ragnar would most assuredly make good on his promise. Even if he were to reveal the truth about the letter, how could he expect Ragnar to spare Ecbert’s beloved daughter and grandson, when Ecbert spared no compassion for the Northmen? In fact, Athelstan reasoned to himself, if Ragnar were made aware of the child, he may even view it as evidence of Athelstan’s own betrayal. He couldn’t be sure. Ragnar’s desire for retribution was too strong.

Though his mind was swimming with uncertainty, Athelstan was sure of one thing – he could not simply sit idle and watch these events play out. He could not let Ragnar extinguish Judith’s light, nor could he allow his own flesh and blood to be struck down, especially when he was so unsure of what sort of afterlife was in store for him, if any. He began to feel tormented by the many questions in his mind. Was it Freyja, or even Thor, who willed him to have a son? Why would they grant him a child if he could not act as its father? Was it a test of his character, that he should be so torn between his progeny and his most devoted friend? He sighed, then began to rally himself for what was to come.

He seated himself directly across the table from Ragnar, reaching over to fill his own cup. Together they sat in quiet contemplation, sipping their drinks, soaking in the tranquility. Eventually, Athelstan felt ready to speak his mind.

“Ragnar…” he began tentatively.

“Yes, Priest?” Ragnar answered, using the title only as a blithe term of endearment.

“Perhaps… well,” he paused to take another swig from his cup. His hesitation was not purely for Ragnar’s sake – he was unsure if what he was about to propose was even what he really wanted. Nevertheless, he swallowed and carried on. “What if I _were_ to return to Wessex?”

“What?” Ragnar blurted. His fingers curled tightly around the crude metal cup, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, return? We will return to Wessex together, as we discussed.” 

Athelstan shifted in his seat.

“I’d return as your emissary,” Athelstan clarified. “King Ecbert and I have a history. He trusts me. I could investigate… learn his weaknesses. I could facilitate the justice you seek.”

Ragnar’s eye twitched as he considered the proposition. The idea did have merit, and yet…

“No,” Ragnar answered. “That is exactly what he wants. He wants to take you away from me, but he can not have everything. I need you here,” he said, taking one last, long swig from his cup, then slamming it down on the table as if to bring the bring the matter to a close.

“But I can get closer to him than anyone else. It could be beneficial.”

“It is a generous offer,” Ragnar said, looking away. He was not willing to debate the issue, and he worried that meeting Athelstan’s eyes would cripple his resolve. “But no, it is not necessary. We will invade Wessex as planned. Justice will be done. We will do it.”

Truthfully, Athelstan did not even know if it was safe for him there. He did not know if he could actually get close to Ecbert now, after everything that had happened. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that such a risk was imperative.

“If King Ecbert is to be defeated, it must be done from the inside. He is a powerful man with many allies,” Athelstan reasoned.

“And will I not be a powerful man when Paris is under my control? You said it yourself, that my power will soon match my ambition.”

“Yes, that is so, but—“

Ragnar pounded his fist on the table. With an agitated groan, he rose from the bench and walked away. Facing away from Athelstan, he closed his eyes and raised his face skyward, as if seeking support from the gods.

“I do not understand why you fight me on this,” he said, taking a deep breath before turning around to face the object of his frustration. “I have made it very clear that I need you here. I need you. Do you understand?”

Athelstan digested Ragnar’s statement carefully. He licked his lips – he found that his mouth had gone quite dry, despite the drink before him – and secretly asked the gods to illuminate for him the exact words that would turn Ragnar’s mind. He stood, holding Ragnar’s gaze, and began to advance, hands outstretched before him in a show of earnestness. Ragnar stared him down upon his approach, unblinking. Even in the dim lighting, Ragnar’s eyes shone, like a lighthouse on the shore of a dark ocean. Long ago, they made Athelstan feel exposed and vulnerable. Over time, they had become more of a guiding light for him.

“What if that letter was a sign?” he said, vaguely nodding toward the wrinkled parchment which he left behind on the table. “What if it came to me because I was meant to be the catalyst for Ecbert’s downfall?”

Ragnar groaned again, this time rolling his eyes. He was through with arguing. He wished Athelstan would simply accept his wishes.

“Am I not a free man?” Athelstan asked, knowing it was a rather unscrupulous argument.

Without warning, Ragnar reached out and grabbed Athelstan’s collar, bunching the fabric in his fist, and yanked him forward before jerking him backwards against the thick wooden pillar which was holding up the center of the tent. 

His face was mere inches from Athelstan’s. Athelstan could feel Ragnar’s breath on his face when he spoke, the words hot and impassioned as they ripped from his throat. Yet despite the position he was in, Athelstan was not afraid. He knew he had no reason to be.

“All this talk of signs… I must wonder, are they my gods, or yours?” he spat.

“You know that your gods and mine are the same,” he responded, not breaking eye contact. No matter Ragnar’s reaction, he had no choice but to stand strong.

“I’m not so sure. It seems to me that Ecbert has summoned you, and you are only too eager to answer his call. Maybe you want to go back, so that you can be with your… _Christ,_ ” he said with a contempt he didn’t truly feel. He was aware that he was being unfair, for he had never questioned or judged Athelstan’s faith, but he could not entertain the possibility of Athelstan leaving, nor did he understand why Athelstan was adamant about doing so. It felt like a betrayal of another kind.

“That’s not so,” Athelstan said simply. He could see now that persuasion was not an option.

Ragnar sneered, moving his face in closer, until his lips were just beside Athelstan’s ear. He parted them to speak, but realized he had nothing left to say. With a final resentful growl, he gave Athelstan another hard shove against the pillar before releasing him and striding toward the tent’s entrance. His fingers curled around the edge of the flap, but before he pulled it up, he half-turned to give Athelstan one final look.

“I want you to stay. Does it make any difference?” he asked, softness and hardness clashing at the edges of his words.

Athelstan’s shoulders fell. There was so much he couldn’t say, and the strain of that burden was all over his face. His eyebrows came together in an expression of desperation and pity.

“I feel it is right,” was the only explanation he could offer.

Ragnar swallowed his grief, choosing instead to focus on his anger.

“It’s true, you are a free man. You have every right to do as you please.”

Athelstan did hear the bitterness in Ragnar’s voice, but the king’s eyes were pleading. He stood stock-still, gripping the pillar behind him, and watched as Ragnar turned from him and left. For a moment, he considered changing his mind, but in the corner of his eye he saw the letter laying on the table. That letter held his fate. He had no choice.

**Author's Note:**

> *Thanks so much for reading! I'd really appreciate any feedback or kudos, they're very encouraging.*


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